


Controlled Circumstances, or: Five Times Methos Didn't Meet Duncan MacLeod (and One Time He Did)

by randomling



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: 18th century Vienna, 1960s New York, 1990s Paris, 1990s Seacouver, 19th century Paris, 5 Things, Gen, Great Fire of London, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4257219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomling/pseuds/randomling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who's your opponent?" he asked.</p>
<p>Darius passed over the wine. "Duncan MacLeod."</p>
<p>"Of the Clan MacLeod," Methos said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London, 1666

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DesertScribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertScribe/gifts).



There'd be a nursery rhyme about tonight, one day.

But Duncan didn't know that. He threw his cloak across his face against the smoke and he shoved in a door with his shoulder. Flames spilled out; his cloak smouldered; the part of him that still feared pain flinched back. But he pushed past it and walked into the building. As he did, his sleeves caught fire, but by the time he walked out again, a coughing girl of about five under one arm, the burns had vanished. His clothes were wrecked, anyway - he'd been at this for two days, and the fire showed no sign of letting up. He left the child with her mother and moved on, waving away the woman's thanks. Plenty of people were trapped, and Duncan's ability to help was unique in London, at least right now.

Or so he thought.

He felt it as he barged into the next house: that unmistakable throbbing hum at the base of his skull. Another Immortal, deeper inside the house. The hilt of Duncan's sword was hot to the touch, but put his hand to it and shoved his way through the house, up a rickety, half-burned-away wooden staircase. But by the time he got to the top of the house, the buzz was receding fast.

In a back room, he found an open window. On the floor was a woman, alive, holding a rag over her nose and mouth to protect from the smoke. Next to her, a doctor's bag.

*

Methos heard his ankle break as he hit the ground; that was exactly what he needed. He ran all the same, biting down into his bottom lip against the pain, wanting only to get as far away from the other Immortal as possible. The bones were already knitting; at least his Quickening meant that his ankle would heal right even if he ran on it. A mortal couldn't have counted on the same.

Damn it all.

The pain only lasted for a few steps, but the regret persisted much longer. Poor Lizzie. Another few moments, and they'd both have been out of the house. Another couple of hours and the ship they'd been bound for would launch. A minute ago, the fire had seemed so convenient, a way for them to disappear without Lizzie's father knowing; he'd wanted to show her the world. He'd told her so many stories about China, and she'd wanted so badly to see it for herself.

Now she would burn to death. Another Immortal would only care about the hunt, not the woman left behind. But if Methos lost a challenge, his chances of taking Lizzie or anyone else to China would be... significantly reduced. And he was so old. So tired of fighting. Tired of risking his life.

He ran for the docks. Another Immortal had sensed him; that meant he needed to leave London, with or without Lizzie. Lucky for him, he had passage booked.

*

To Duncan's surprise, the woman sat up of her own accord and said, "Who are you?" in a sharp Cockney voice. The sharpness cut through the rag she still held to her mouth.

"Are you hurt?" Duncan asked her.

She held up her forearm to show him a burn. "It's nothing," she said, and while Duncan wasn't sure it _was_ nothing, he thought she'd live.

"Can you stand?"

She nodded, but none of the suspicion left her face. "I asked who you are," she said.

"Why don't we get you out of here first?"

The woman nodded and stood, bringing the doctor's bag with her. She wouldn't be carried, but she did take Duncan's arm, and he beat a path back to the front door, helping her over the larger gaps in the stairway. Back in the street, in the dispersing smoke, Duncan got a better look at her. She was statuesque and handsome, red hair and hard grey eyes making a compelling combination.

She didn't need to ask his name three times. "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the - " He stopped to cough. "Of the Clan MacLeod. Who are you?"

"Elizabeth Lawson." She looked him over and frowned. "You scared William off."

"William?" Duncan asked. He must have been stupid from too much smoke: obviously William was the Immortal who'd been upstairs when he came in.

"My fiancé," she said, her tone defiant. Duncan wondered if Miss Lawson's parents didn't approve the match. "I don't know who you are, but you're to leave him alone."

She delivered it like an order. Taken aback, Duncan nodded his assent, and Elizabeth Lawson said not another word to him. Barefoot, burned and smoke-stained, doctor's bag in hand, Miss Lawson took off down the narrow street, between fire-ravaged buildings, at a smart pace.

*

Methos wasn't sure why he was so anxious. By rights, he should have been grieving; Lizzie had to be dead. She wouldn't be leaving London with him, or even leaving that house, not under her own power.

And yet Methos found himself pacing the length of the docks, watching the crowd with increasing agitation.

That mood lasted perhaps ten minutes before the inevitable misery descended over him, grey and leaden. This, at least, was familiar. He found a scrap of wall to lean against and threaded his fingers together, then separated them again, watching the unmoving cobbles at his feet. Lizzie was gone. He'd go on to China alone. That knowledge was bitter as smoke in his mouth.

He was still staring at the cobbles when a bag was dropped onto them, almost hitting his feet. Methos stared at it, but it didn't move, and a close examination of its scuffs and scratches led him to believe that it was...

...his...

...bag.

A pair of grubby feet appeared behind the bag.

He looked up. Lizzie's dress, once blue, was now largely black with smoke. Her skin was grubby, too, but her eyes looked as clear and sharp as ever, and she looked equal parts relieved and angry. Methos hesitated for a moment, then threw his arms around her. They clung to each other for several seconds before Lizzie pulled back and fixed him with a stony glare. "You've got some explaining to do."

"I imagine I do at that," said Methos. This would take quick thinking - but it was the kind of quick thinking he'd done many times before. "How did you...?"

"A man came in after you," Lizzie said. "He got me out." Methos frowned; the other Immortal? That marked the man out. Most Immortals wouldn't stop in the middle of the hunt to save a stranger.

He supposed that meant Lizzie had saved his life, in much the same way the other Immortal had saved hers.

"Who was he?"

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Lizzie said. "Scotsman." The name, Methos thought, made that much obvious.

It was a name he'd remember.


	2. Vienna, 1735

"Ah, if it isn't the good Doctor," Fitzcairn said, his voice carrying across the ballroom.

Methos smiled and raised his glass. It was nice, on occasion, not to have to run from a buzz, and he and Fitz had come to an arrangement long ago. "I didn't know you were in Vienna."

"For a few months now," said Fitz. "It's where all the best people are."

"So there's a woman." But that was a redundant observation: for Fitz, there was always a woman. The change in Fitz's expression confirmed it, and Methos hid his grin in a sip of champagne. "Is she here?"

"Of course!" Fitz said.

He didn't offer to introduce her, though - which meant she was another man's wife. Methos had no sympathy; in fact, he usually took _I'm married to someone else_ as a good cue to get out of town.

Methos took a lot of things as a good cue to get out of town.

"So how've you been?" Fitz asked. "Still cutting up corpses?"

"Now and then," Methos said, and then they both looked around, eyes wide, as a familiar pattern of vibration started up in Methos's head.

Speaking of good cues to get out of town. Methos left his champagne on the nearest available surface and beat a hasty retreat as Fitz said, "Ah, that'll be MacLeod."

*

"What'll be me?" asked MacLeod.

Fitz looked around, but the only evidence Dr Adams had been there at all was his champagne, now unattended on a nearby windowsill. MacLeod, never one to miss a free drink - typical Scot - knocked back his own and picked up the abandoned glass. "Never mind," Fitz said. Adams was entertaining enough, but Immortals he didn't know made him a bit shy. "Where've you been?"

From the way MacLeod grinned over Adams's champagne, Fitz could tell the story would be a good one.


	3. Paris, 1844

MacLeod sighed, picked up his knight, put it down again without moving it, and finally moved his bishop.

Darius didn't make the move Mac had been expecting; instead, he took the vulnerable pawn, leaving a bishop of his own exposed. When Mac captured the bishop, Darius grinned like a shark. "Duncan, you have to learn to think ahead," he said. Then he moved his knight into position to threaten MacLeod's queen.

"Oh," said Mac.

Propping his chin up on his folded hands, Mac stared at the board. "So," he said after a few moments of contemplation, "you're sure Methos isn't real?"

"Just a legend," Darius said. "No one knows who the oldest of us is. Even the name is probably a corruption of the Greek for myth." Darius mirrored Mac's posture, elbows braced on his knees, chin resting on his hands. "Your move."

Mac sighed again. There was nothing for it; he'd have to move his queen out of the way. But then... No matter which direction he moved his queen, it'd be mate in six, seven, a maximum of eight moves.

Darius was far too good at this.

He was stretching out his hand to move his queen when the clock struck four. Darius looked up at it and put his hand on Mac's arm. "I'm sorry, Duncan," he said, "I'm expecting someone."

Mac bristled. "Oh come on, I would never!"

"Would never what?" Darius asked, his tone infuriatingly mild.

"Do... whatever it is you're expecting me to do?" Mac ventured. Darius smiled, a slow, priestly smile, and released Mac's arm.

"He and I simply prefer to be alone," Darius said. "Will I see you next week?" They'd been playing chess every week for three months.

Mac nodded. "Of course," he said, and he finished his wine.

*

Methos came in the back way a few minutes after four, hands shoved into his pockets. He could think of a lot of good reasons to be here. Paris was always a decent place to spend time, holy ground was relaxing, and he hadn't seen Darius for a long time.

A very long time, actually.

The feeling of Darius's presence was almost comforting. "Methos," Darius said, holding out his hand.

They were alone, then. Methos shook the offered hand warmly. He sat down in front of a chess board a moment later, studying the state of play while Darius poured him a glass of wine.

"Who's your opponent?" he asked.

Darius passed over the wine. "Duncan MacLeod."

"Of the Clan MacLeod," Methos said.

"You're acquainted?"

"I've heard rumours." Methos sipped his wine. "He's not doing badly," he said after a moment. He could tell Darius's playing style anywhere. The state of the board drew a picture of MacLeod as decisive, perhaps bordering on impulsive; he'd left several pieces exposed to go on the offensive. Well, that marked him out as reckless.

Young, in other words.

"I'll have him in five moves," said Darius.

Methos narrowed his eyes at the board, scoping out the potential paths from this point, and said, "Maybe not."

"I wouldn't have _you_ in five," Darius said, smiling.

The smile was a challenge; Methos returned it eagerly. "You wouldn't have me at all."

"Would you like to test that theory?" Darius asked, and it warmed Methos to see that, despite the cassock and the priestly demeanour, there was something of the old warlord left. He sat back, enjoying the moment, letting it stretch.

Then he said, "Gladly."

He swirled his wine in its glass while Darius fetched another board.


	4. Brooklyn, 1969

The buzz of an Immortal approaching, combined with acid, was... y'know. Trippy. But even as she smiled at the sensations, Amanda checked that her sword was in place. A single tab of LSD didn't wipe out a millennium's worth of hard-won instinct.

She turned towards the source of the feeling and said, "MacLeod?"

But it wasn't MacLeod. Even as a silhouette in the doorway, across a room thick with smoke, she could see that. He was the right height, but he looked far too thin, and his hair was too short, an inch or so past his chin. Mac had grown his all the way to his shoulders, and while he swore he wasn't imitating Lennon, Amanda knew better.

Then the man stepped through the doorway, out of the shadows. Light from a floor lamp nearby illuminated his face, and Amanda thought, _I know you._

After that she thought about the deep connection between rabbits and accountancy for a few moments. When she came back to reality, the Immortal had made his way to the other side of the room, seeming to ignore her.

Well, that wouldn't do. He was... they were... Amanda couldn't quite think, but she recognised him. She made her way across the room on unsteady legs, picking her way over a couple of doped-out teenagers and the man - unconscious now - who'd invited her to the party. The other Immortal sat cross-legged on the floor, back up against the wall, sipping at a bottled beer. As she reached his side, he accepted a joint from the guy next to him.

He'd known Rebecca, hadn't he?

"Hey," Amanda said.

The Immortal looked up at her, with an expression of... not quite dismissal, nor quite contempt, but it wasn't a friendly look, either. "Hello," he said.

"I don't feel like fighting," she said. Nearby, a guy in a poor imitation of an Indian shirt glanced at her, confused. Amanda wasn't surprised. This was the kind of crowd that worshipped peace and dope and John Lennon, that talked flower power and protested against the war in Vietnam. At a party like this, fighting didn't even come up unless you were talking about how terrible it was.

"Good," the Immortal said. His voice sounded smooth and calm, but even sky-high, Amanda caught the edge of menace.

She wasn't scared, though. He was a friend of Rebecca's; she was sure of it now. "Listen," she said, sitting beside him. "I'm headed to another party. A friend of mine will be there. Duncan MacLeod, you'd like him."

"Would I now?"

He took a pull on the joint and offered it to Amanda. When she shook her head, he shrugged and passed it on.

"Yeah," said Amanda.

The Immortal regarded her for a moment, and then said, "Okay."

Amanda got to her feet and turned away. When she reached the door, she realised that not only had the man not come with her, he'd disappeared.

And she didn't know his name.

*

The back door closed quietly behind Methos and, buttoning his coat against the New York winter, he walked back towards the subway. He hadn't even stayed long enough for Rupe to show up. Tomorrow, he should call and apologise.

He'd seen that woman before. Hadn't she been one of Rebecca's students, way back in the Dark Ages? His memory even managed to dredge up a name: Amanda.

And she'd been high as a kite. That was the disadvantage of these parties - it was so easy to get out of control. That was one reason Methos never stayed long, not even when Immortals didn't show up and offer to introduce him to Duncan MacLeod of the bloody Clan MacLeod. It was too tempting to overindulge. One beer too many, one more lungful of pot, could lose you your coordination, and with it your head.

MacLeod. He hadn't heard that name for a while, but the man certainly had a reputation. One that wasn't compatible with Methos's history. No; if he ever met MacLeod, it'd be under controlled circumstances, not at some party packed with strung-out kids and too much sitar music.

Which meant it was time to get out of New York. That thought made him sigh as he turned a corner and the subway station came into view. If he was leaving town, there wasn't much point calling that nice English boy and making promises he couldn't keep.

So much for free love.

Oh, well. Japan was nice this time of the year. He hadn't been to Japan in some time.


	5. Seacouver, 1991

Joe slid another beer across the table in Adam's direction, and Adam caught it ably with his free hand. Geek or not, the kid had good reflexes.

"Well," Adam said, "facial hair comes and goes in fashion like anything else." He opened the bottle one-handed, keeping his place in a Chronicle with the other.

"You think Methos gives a damn about fashion?"

Adam shrugged eloquently. "I don't know what he gives a damn about. He doesn't keep a diary."

"Man," Joe said. That idea sparked something. "Can you imagine? The private thoughts of Methos the Immortal, aged... however the hell old he is." Joe finished his own beer and reached for another. "How old is he?"

"No one knows," Adam said. "There are records of him as far back as Mesopotamia, which is about as far back as written records go. So he could be much, much older than written history." He paused to sip his beer, then grinned at Joe - a winning, boyish grin. "Which means there's a man alive in the world today who spoke Sumerian. Actually _spoke_ it. Most likely Akkadian, too."

"And Ancient Egyptian... Latin, Ancient Greek..."

"And who knows how many others," Adam said, propping one elbow on the table as he warmed to his subject. "Languages with no written form at all - languages completely lost to history. I mean, he knows stuff about the ancient world that we have no other way of finding out. Except by talking to him. Isn't that amazing? Can you imagine meeting someone like that?"

Joe chuckled. "I really can't. What would you even say to him?"

"Tell me everything," Adam said, his tone utterly serious, and then he burst out laughing.

Joe laughed with him, because the idea of this kid, so intense and eager, meeting a man who was - at least - a few thousand years old was ridiculous. He could picture Adam quizzing the guy. In detail. Notebook in hand. He was the expert on Methos these days; he'd absorbed all of Don Salzer's research and then outpaced him within a couple of years. Joe guessed that happened if you were willing to put in the hours, and this visit had shown that Adam was. Six days, and he hadn't seen Adam without a book in his hand except in his sleep - and even then, if the book wasn't in his hand it was face-down on his chest or on the floor next to the couch. The suitcase he'd brought from Paris had been 90% books, 10% clothes, at a rough guess.

"So," Joe said a few moments later. "I guess I can't give you the man himself, but how'd you like to take a look at a real Immortal?"

"What?" said Adam, and for half a second, Joe thought he looked... alarmed.

But that was soon replaced with confusion. Joe went on. "MacLeod's girlfriend has an art opening tonight," Joe said. "I'll take a look. Want to come along, get a taste of what it's like in the field? See how the other half lives?"

"Oh." Adam looked as if he'd prefer to spend the evening pulling out his toenails with pliers. Joe suddenly understood the moment of panic: Adam didn't love being surrounded by new people, did he? Poor kid. "Actually," Adam went on, sliding the Chronicle on the table to suggest the topic of conversation, "I'm close to a breakthrough on this. I want to see how much I can get done before tomorrow." His flight back to Paris was the next afternoon.

Joe raised his eyebrows. "You came all this way, you don't wanna at least see the guy?" Adam had seemed interested in MacLeod, but maybe that was Joe's own fascination clouding his eyes. He'd sure told Adam a lot of MacLeod stories this week; even some of the Great Fire of London stories, though how many of them were true was up for debate. MacLeod's Watcher had left town at the first sign of smoke.

Adam had looked so wistful at the thought of 17th-century London that Joe had taken great pleasure in reminding him of the sewage in the streets, the rats and the plague.

"I'd rather see Methos," said Adam, shifting the Chronicle again. "Figuratively speaking."

Joe grinned at him. "Yeah, you were made for research, kid."

Unexpectedly, Adam gave a bark of laughter, and, still grinning, Joe shook his head. For all his introversion and obsession, the boy had a sense of humour. And a sense of humour about himself, which was rare enough in the Watchers that it made Joe automatically think of him as a friend.

Adam drew his knees up to his chest. "That I was, Joe," he said, "that I was."


	6. Paris, 1994

Methos found himself laughing to - and at - himself most of the way back to his flat. Three hundred and fifty years of gathering data, and in the final event it came to this. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod walking straight into his flat without so much as a by-your-leave. He supposed this was what he got for making friends with Joe Dawson.

_Controlled circumstances, my arse._

Even funnier: in one short conversation, he'd seen it all. Everything from the reputation that preceded MacLeod. The heroism, the kindness, an understated sense of humour that Methos hadn't expected and could definitely appreciate. Less youthful recklessness than he'd guessed from that long-ago chess game.

He supposed a century and a half was enough time to mature a _little._

Less ego than expected, too. In Methos's experience, most people who set themselves up as heroes thought a great deal of themselves. But MacLeod put on a pretty good show of being a guy trying his best to do the right thing. Whether that show matched up with the real self, only time would tell. But Methos found he wanted to take that time. Wanted to get to know MacLeod - as a person, not just a legend.

When, as he approached the flat, his head throbbed, he didn't wonder even for a second whether MacLeod had followed. He knew who was waiting for him.

Kalas.

Maybe it was because of Don Salzer; maybe it was that it had been so long; maybe it was MacLeod already rubbing off on him. But for the first time in two hundred years, Methos didn't run.


End file.
